


Unexpected

by PSW



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Xenopolycythemia, lots of Brandy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 19:21:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14142840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PSW/pseuds/PSW
Summary: Leonard McCoy comes face to face with his own mortality, and hope comes from an unexpected source.  A nod to TOS.





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from FF.net.

There was no cure for xenopolycythemia.

As a highly educated physician, with multiple degrees and Starfleet training, Leonard McCoy was well aware of that fact. He pretended not to be, though, for three weeks after his routine physical turned up the classic signs, and after four blood tests each confirmed it. He spent hours at his terminal—sometimes in his office, sometimes in his quarters to avoid the inevitable questions about why he was suddenly glued to his monitor every waking moment. His staff was a close-knit bunch and it would only take them so long to realize that there was something up beside his usual end of the year continuing education woes. As if he needed CE, working out here in the Middle of Nowhere, Milky Way, and mopping up after  _Jim Kirk_ to boot. That was all the extra education he would ever need. Heck, he should probably be writing the stupid things himself ….

All his effort turned up exactly nothing, of course. He read journals and ran scenarios and cross-referenced data from a dozen different species and diseases, and in the end, after weeks of burning his retinas out on small type and backlit screens, he ended up in exactly the same place he had started.

Because there  _was no_  cure, no matter how far into denial he let himself sink.

He pulled out the Saurian brandy and got completely smashed the night he finally x'd out of the journals, shut down his scenarios, and admitted to himself that there was nothing he could do. He was going to die. Years ago, in the throes of an ugly divorce and with no one (except for Joanna, and he wasn't likely to see her again soon if Jocelyn had anything to say about it) and nothing left on Earth to call his own, he might have welcomed that. Now, though …. Now he had good friends, and a fantastic staff, and interesting, challenging work aboard the Federation  _flagship_ —the envy of every other vessel in the quadrant. Now he had something to live for.

It didn't look like that was going to happen.

He detoxed the next morning before his shift and managed to make it through the day without frightening or offending too many people—although Ensign Janiston from Engineering might very well never reappear in Sickbay during his shift again. In fact, things went so well that he repeated his performance the next night, and the next, until a solid week had gone by and he didn't remember a single off-duty moment, other than a blurred recollection of waking up one morning with the shards of three brandy glasses and a fairly awful native vase that he'd picked up on Salis V in a heap in the corner of his bedroom. That was the day that he realized he couldn't go on like this. People were going to notice, eventually—from the looks that Nurse Wylean had been giving him, at least some people probably already had—and if he wanted to keep this thing to himself he had best clean up and put his best foot forward.

He  _did_  want to keep a lid on it, at least for a while. Oh, he'd have to tell people eventually. Jim would have to hire a new CMO, and the more notice he gave for that process the better. They would have to make plans to get him back to Earth, too, when the symptoms had progressed to a point where he could no longer function. That would be … another seven or eight months, if the disease moved along somewhat normally. Of course, Jim would need to know long before that, and the command crew, and his Medical staff. His best friend and his coworkers—his  _friends_ —would need time to work through this news, too. They had been together for years, through an entire list of crazy crises and situations that no one stuck planet-side could ever imagine. Heck, there had been whole months when they hadn't even  _seen_  anyone else. He was psychologist enough to know what this kind of diagnosis would do to a crew as close as the  _Enterprise's_.

He wasn't ready, though. He wasn't ready for the horror, the tears, the pitying looks when people thought he wasn't looking. The false cheer when they thought he was. He just wanted things to be normal for a little while longer. So, he wouldn't say anything quite yet.

Another month, maybe. No more.

That was the plan, but it had been his experience that the original plan never really worked out the way you wanted.  This one was no different. McCoy was drinking in his quarters a week and a half after making that decision—he was no longer getting drunk nightly, but it was hard not to backslide and have a few every once in a while when he actually let himself think about what was coming—when his door chimed. Muttering under his breath, he slouched back onto the couch and set the glass on the deck behind it.

"Come!"

The door slid open to reveal the  _Enterprise's_  First Officer and resident Vulcan.

Fantastic. Just when he had thought this night couldn't get any better …

"Spock!" He motioned broadly. "Come on in! What can I do ya for?"

Spock blinked, and the dark eyes narrowed. He hesitated, then stepped into the room, allowing the door to slide shut behind him. For a long moment he simply stood, eyeing McCoy. McCoy returned his own stare to the back wall and attempted to ignore his visitor—two could play at this game.  Finally, though, irritation managed to surge through the brandy buffer.

"Do you need something, hobgoblin, or did you just stop by for a gawk? I'm a little busy here."

"Indeed, I can see that." Spock sniffed, and barely managed to avoid wrinkling his nose. "And smell it, as well."

McCoy growled, straightening. "I don't need you to okay what I do on my own time."

"That is entirely accurate." Spock took another step forward and folded his hands behind him. "However, when your off-duty actions begin to affect your on-duty performance, it is within my purview as your direct supervisor to—"

"You wait just a cotton-pickin' minute." McCoy surged off the couch to poke a finger at the blue-clad chest. "If you  _ever_  suggest that I would treat a patient impaired, you'd better—"

"I was not suggesting that, Doctor." Spock moved out of his reach. "To my knowledge, _no_  one has suggested that—as of yet.  Should they?"

McCoy saw red—how  _dare_  this green-blooded computer question his medical judgment?—and turned abruptly away to regain control. It was slow in coming, and the alcohol wasn't particularly helpful. After a few tense seconds, Spock continued.

"No one has suggested that you have been acting under the influence, Doctor. However, it has recently been brought to my attention that your behavior of late appears to be … unusual. Strained."

McCoy whirled back around. " _Who_ —"

"I myself have seen from you the signs of chemical detoxification on multiple occasions over the past month."

Well,  _crap_. McCoy drew in a deep breath, then sat. Spock trailed closer, although the Vulcan remained just out of reach. Smart, really, given the anger that was beginning to boil just below McCoy's surface. He was sure something of it must have shown on his face.

Of all people— _all_  people—to back him into a corner about this …. He and Spock had forged a solid working relationship over the years. A friendship, even, he might admit in his better moods. Still, the man was as implacable as time itself, and about as sympathetic as a brick. Spock probably wasn't leaving here without an answer, and he would have been the last person McCoy would have picked to try this conversation out for the first time.

Maybe he could still get around it.

"Is this the reason you're here? Really? Or was there something else that—"

"I would be remiss if I did not follow up on reported concerns and my own observations. As Chief Medical Officer, you are in a significant position of influence and accountability aboard the  _Enterprise_. It is incumbent upon me, in my duties as First Officer, to—"

Then again, maybe this pain-in-the-ass was exactly the icebreaker he needed.

"I'm dying."

Spock's jaw actually clicked shut. It would have been funny, except that it … wasn't. The Vulcan stood as still as a statue for several seconds, then asked, "Pardon me?"

"I'm dying, Spock. Sorry if it's taking a little more alcohol than you'd like to get me through."

The dark head tilted. A kind of tense bewilderment radiated from the First Officer's posture and non-expression. "Explain."

"Xenopolycythemia." McCoy pushed off the couch and prowled restlessly around the small room. Now that it was out, he was surprisingly anxious to talk about it. "It's a rare—"

"I am familiar with the disease."

Of _course_ Spock was familiar with it. There wasn't much of anything, in McCoy's experience, with which Spock  _wasn't_  familiar. "Then you know there's no cure."

"I …" Spock fell silent, and actually  _twitched_. Huh. "Doctor, are you certain—"

"Are you about to ask me an  _illogical_  question, Spock?" McCoy laughed—a harsh, desperate sound that he didn't really recognize as his own voice. "Because, it sounded like you were about to ask me if I was  _sure_  about my diagnosis." Spock remained silent, still. "And I know that  _you_  know I would have rechecked this thing more than enough times to be certain." Spock blinked, once. "Or maybe," McCoy continued, "you were about to ask me if I was  _sure_  there was no cure. And you  _know_  that I would have torn every database in Starfleet apart before I admitted that I was beat." The First Officer nodded slowly. McCoy circled around to stand before him. "So, are you  _sure_  you really want to ask me whatever it was you were about to say?"

Spock was still for another long moment, then, "Do you … require anything, Doctor?"

It was … not what he’d been expecting. But he  _should_  have, because despite their differences, despite all their nitpicking and fighting, above it all they were shipmates. Friends. Spock had his back. Deep down, McCoy had no doubt about that.

"You know what?" He was suddenly exhausted. "Right now, I just need to be alone." McCoy collapsed back onto the couch, and retrieved the glass of brandy. Spock raised an eyebrow.

"Doctor …"

"Last one, I promise. I'll be my usual bright, chipper self tomorrow morning."

"Perhaps you are  _already_  intoxicated, if you believe—"

He snorted out a laugh, a real one this time. "Get out of here, hobgoblin."

Spock hovered for a minute longer, then turned and gracefully made for the door. Just before it triggered, he turned. "Doctor, I do not know how long you intend to conceal this from—"

"Not long." He shook his head. "I just … not yet, okay Spock?"

The First Officer nodded. "Very well. I will trust your judgment." The dark eyes narrowed. "Do not give me cause to regret it."

Strangely, those last words didn't anger him. In fact, he was aware of a profound gratitude and relief. It was over. That first awkward conversation was past. "Thanks."

"Indeed." Spock made to exit, then paused once more. "Doctor, the captain may soon also begin to be concerned for your well-being if you do not make some manner of visit to the bridge in the near future. He has commented three times in the past thirty-six hours regarding your recent unusual absences."

That was the last thing he wanted. "Right. Got it, thanks."

Spock nodded, turned, and disappeared into the hall.

* * *

 

McCoy was hovering behind Jim's chair the following afternoon, berating the captain for something stupid and feeling more like himself than he had for the past month, when Uhura turned from her post.

"Mr. Spock."

It was humorous, even after all this time, to hear their on-duty formality. Spock turned from his station.

"Lieutenant?"

"You have a transmission, sir." She frowned. "It's from—"

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I will take it in Conference Room 1." Spock rose and crossed the bridge. He halted at the lift, looking back. "Doctor, please accompany me."

What? He exchanged a quick glance with Jim—the captain's eyebrows had shot into his hairline, and he looked like curiosity might very well eat him alive if he didn't find out soon what this unexpected side trip entailed—then trailed after Spock onto the lift. As it closed, he turned on the First Officer.

"What's this about?"

Spock merely stared at the closed door.  After a few more queries had been similarly ignored, McCoy gave up and fell to muttering beneath his breath. They exited the lift outside of Conference Room 1, and entered through the double doors. Spock locked them by voice code—here McCoy lifted his own eyebrow, because that was … unusual—and signaled Uhura to transfer the transmission. McCoy focused on the screen just in time to see …

Spock.

Ambassador Spock.  _Old_  Spock.

He wasn't supposed to know, of course, but Jim had never been any good at keeping secrets from him—and to be fair, really hadn't even tried with this one. McCoy gaped, and looked to Spock.

Commander Spock.  _Their_  Spock.

"What's this—"

Spock silenced him with a glare, then turned to the screen and bowed courteously. "Mr. Spock."

"Mr. Spock." The elderly Vulcan on the screen returned the bow, and his face radiated a touch of ironic humor that McCoy had never seen from their Spock. Huh. He wondered if their Spock would ever be capable of that expression.

McCoy hoped suddenly, fiercely, that he would, and felt an equally fierce flash of regret that he would not be there to see it.

There was no more time for thoughts in that direction, fortunately. The Ambassador's gaze turned toward him. "Dr. McCoy."

"Ambassador." He nodded politely, and the humor in the lined face deepened. Spock—Commander Spock—was speaking again before he had time to ponder that.

"I thank you for responding to my message, Ambassador."

"Indeed, I was pleased to do so." The older Spock settled back in his chair. "I understand that you require information." Information? McCoy frowned over at Spock—their Spock. What was the Vulcan playing at?

Younger Spock acknowledged with a quick nod. "Your knowledge would be most appreciated."

"Commander." Older Spock shook his head slowly. "You and I have discussed this very matter several times. Although I have offered you guidance at points in the past, it is my belief that you are better served in following your own path, and working out your own solutions. Whatever your current endeavor, your destiny is best decided by your own actions."

Spock—Commander Spock, and this was getting annoyingly difficult to keep straight in his head—bowed his head. "I understand, sir." He paused, then looked up. "However, perhaps you will make another exception, as we are not in a position to solve this particular problem using our own resources."

Old Spock sighed … almost. "Regrettably, that too will occur. As you are logically aware, the sum of your knowledge will gain as much from failure as from success—albeit more painfully, perhaps, and with more—"

"Sir, please forgive me, but in your own universe, had a cure perhaps been developed for the condition known as xenopolycythemia?"

 _Crap._  He hadn't even … He hadn't even thought about that. He hadn't even  _considered_  something so completely insane as an alternate universe cure. McCoy's head spun. He looked from Commander Spock to Ambassador Spock, fighting back irrational hope because this  _surely_  couldn't work, and found the older Vulcan's eyes on him. There was a sudden softness there. An understanding.

He  _knew_. Ambassador Spock  _knew_. This request could have been for anyone, McCoy was the doctor and would have been the logical person to be requesting the treatment, but the Ambassador  _knew_  that he was the one who was sick.

Hope and fear exploded together in his chest, through his limbs.

The deep-set eyes took him in for an instant, studied him from within the wrinkled face that had seen more than maybe anyone else in the universe, and then Ambassador Spock nodded, once. "Dr. McCoy, I shall send my transmission directly to your attention. You will receive it within twenty-four Earth hours. Assuming no variants have developed in this universe, the formula will provide a complete cure."

Apparently, thankfully, learning from their own mistakes only extended so far.

His knees buckled, and he had to sit. McCoy sagged into a chair, rested his head on the table. The room was spinning around him, and the edges of his vision were dark, and he couldn't breathe.

He  _wasn't_  going to die ….

McCoy tried to mumble out any kind of response—gratitude or acknowledgement or  _anything_  that made any kind of sense. He wasn't sure if he managed it, but it didn't seem to matter. He heard the Spocks (sounded a bit like a rock band, put that way) speaking around and above him, the gravelly older voice and the smooth, modulated younger. He heard the crackle as the transmission ended. He looked up, finally, and found Spock regarding him.

"Spock." He didn't recognize his own voice—he could barely speak at all. "I don't even know …  _Thank_  you.  I …" Words failed, yet again.

The First Officer nodded, and the dark eyes studied him. "Indeed, Doctor, you are most welcome.  I am … quite gratified, that the Ambassador is able to assist."

McCoy wasn’t sure whether he was horrified or amused by the tears he was forced to wipe away. "I have to say, Spock, I'm quite gratified, too."

A ghost of humor lit the Vulcan's eyes. "I would imagine so." McCoy remembered the Ambassador's expression—the gentle, ironic humor—and thought suddenly that it wasn't such a stretch to imagine that on their Spock's face. And he might be there to see it after all. Spock tilted his head. "In the future you may do well to consider conversation, rather than brandy. You might prefer the second, but the first offers many possibilities that, logically, the second cannot."

"Right." McCoy snorted, dragging his sleeve across his eyes. "Logically."

“Indeed, Doctor.”

He rested his forehead back on the table and took a long, deep breath.

The  _Enterprise_  was his home, and would be for years to come. The crew was his family. They had his back, all of them—even the logic-loving, computer-brained, green-blooded hobgoblins.

He wouldn't forget that again.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story is ... just awful, really. If anyone thinks of anything fantastic, let me know and I'll seriously consider changing it ... :-P


End file.
